


Year King

by twitchbell



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, Robin of Sherwood
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-05
Updated: 2010-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-08 17:42:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twitchbell/pseuds/twitchbell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a strange journey through time, Robin of Loxley meets King Richard - the Third.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Year King

Robin shivered, and the ice that slithered between his shoulder blades owed as much to the apprehension of danger as it did to the chill that clung to the dank walls of the sandstone caves. Only the summer drought, exposing passages normally rendered inaccessible by the frequent flooding of the river Leen, had made the expedition possible. And necessary.

The winter had been bitterly cold but dry. Spring had followed with warmth and light, but little rain to nourish the precious seedlings. And summer had deepened the heat, making a brown and barren land where all should have been lush green or rippling with the ripening gold of wheat. There would be little food this coming winter in Wickham, or in many other of the tiny villages that nestled in and around the forest of Sherwood. These were Robin Hood’s folk, those who looked to him in their time of need, seeking succour. And the youngest and weakest of them, those most in need of the protection he was sworn to give, would be the first to starve.

He was Herne’s Son. He had asked for the blessing of rain for his people, but the rain could fall late, or too hard and heavy so that it drowned the spindly, withered crops. It was his task to seek alternatives and so had this night mission presented itself: a hidden way into Nottingham Castle, a long disused passage that would take them to a level immediately below the treasury. Tom, the Maybury potter, had the information from his grandfather who’d once been part of the castle garrison. Even back then the way was not much known, having fallen into disuse because of the frequent and dangerous flooding, and the old man had felt it unlikely that anyone now at the castle had the slightest idea of its existence.

Robin heard the others following: the light footfalls of Marion and Much; the heavier tread of Scarlet and John; the firm step of Tuck and the barely detectable one of Nasir. He paused a moment, swinging round to face them, his face illuminated under the flare from the torch of rags and pitch like some eldritch creature from the underworld. He showed none of the apprehension he felt. They were here on the word of an old man who might have misremembered the facts, or maybe had been schooled by his grandson who could be in the pay of the sheriff. The entire garrison might even now be waiting for them in the treasury. But some risks were worth running, and his fears were better left unvoiced.

"The map, Tuck," he said calmly and took the roughly draw plan, his smooth brow bearing a look of intense concentration as he plotted their present position.

"Well?" Will demanded, blowing on his hands and rubbing them together, as much with impatience as with cold.

"We’re half way there. We’ve covered the easy section. From here on, the passage narrows and curves downwards a little before looping back up. The old man warned me there might be cave-ins. Could be eighty years since anyone trod this path. There’s no telling what we might find."

"Let’s just pray there’s still a way through," Tuck said.

"If there isn’t, we’ll make one." John flexed his muscles and grinned. They’d come prepared for that; he had a hefty axe slung over one shoulder, as did Nasir and Scarlet.

The way began to narrow as expected, although they could still walk two abreast. Marion kept beside Robin, her face drawn and intent on the way ahead. The ground became ever more treacherous, over-laid with a thick, evil-smelling slime. Robin wondered how long the slick of stagnant water from the Leen had lain here undisturbed until, unrenewed by spring tides, it had mostly and messily evaporated.

"Bloody stink," Will muttered from the rear. "Like the filth of Normans have been lyin’ around here for the last hundred an’ fifty years. Sure this ain’t the privy shaft?"

Robin looked across at Marion, their shared smiles locking under the torchlight. Then Robin felt his feet slide from under him. He caught a brief glimpse of Marion’s smile fading into an unvoiced warning and then something struck the back of his head and he fell, helpless, into a darkness as complete and choking as a barrel of pitch.

\------

Robin woke to sunlit patterns on his face filtering through a canopy of green leaves. He blinked, startled, and half-raised himself up on one elbow, noticing as he did so that there was no pain at the back of his head, although the memory of the blow still lingered uncomfortably. His hand dropped instinctively to curl round the hilt of Albion, but his sword was missing. Then he realized he was being watched.

The three men observing him looked to have just dismounted. Their horses stood fretting beside them, trampling the thick undergrowth, their long tails flicking away flies. As Robin looked longer, he noticed there were other - mounted - men a little way back. Of the three on foot, all were richly dressed in silks and velvets. Two of them - one of whom bore across his outstretched hands a sword which Robin knew rather than saw was Albion - looked to be remonstrating with the third. As Robin watched, this third man seemed to dismiss the other two with a brief wave of the hand. Rather reluctantly, it appeared, they remounted and withdrew to join their comrades, taking Albion with them.

Robin sat up as the remaining man stepped towards him. There was a beech tree behind him and he settled his back against it with an apparent lack of concern which was far removed from his true feelings. Having taken account of the situation, he now realized that he had no idea of how he came to be here and what part, if any, these strangers had played in it. But he hadn’t been bound. Nor did he bear the mark of any ill-treatment, and although the man approaching him bore a hunting dagger it was belted at his side and the expression on his face was not hostile, merely curious. So Robin stayed as he was, but with every muscle tensed to fight or flee should it become necessary.

The stranger paused before him. He was not an old man, although there were harsh lines etched on his face and the eyes were heavy with memories. The dark hair was shorter than Robin’s own, curving round the chin and against the neck. The way he’d moved had been at once purposeful and powerful, although without conveying aggression, and Robin didn’t really need to study the fine and costly trappings of the man’s unfamiliar style of raiment to realize that he was in the presence of somebody with both strength and position in society. He didn’t feel precisely afraid, but rather disquieted - for reasons he didn’t entirely understand.

"My friends think you must be a madman - why else would you lie here alone like this in Sherwood, sleeping like one dead to the world with no heed to your safety? Unless you are of Faerie ... that sword you bore was of a make strange to me. How did you come by it?" The voice was pleasant enough in its inquisition, but Robin had a sense of some deep disturbance held in check just below the calm surface.

"It was given to me," he returned cautiously, "by ... a friend."

An eyebrow arched. "So you can speak. Good. You must have powerful friends. Well, speak on. Are you madman or forest spirit? Or maybe you are a demon sent from hell to torment me, though I must warn you there is little else that you could take from me to wound me further."

Bitterness was the dark undercurrent, Robin realized. He sensed that it welled up now not from a pool of self-pity, but from a deep, dark misery such as could only have come from the loss of much that was held dear. Robin had seen such bitterness before, in Scarlet.

"I am neither mad nor a spirit," he said carefully. "I am ... Robin. The forest is my home."

"Robin of Sherwood? Robin Hood? I see you have been sent to mock me - no!" A surprisingly swift hand pinned Robin to the ground as he tried to leap to his feet. "Where would you go to so suddenly?"

"Why should you need to ask that? I am Robin i’ the Hood. You know my name. You know I am outlawed, and I am here at your mercy!"

To his complete mystification the stranger released him with a laugh that might have been of amusement but contained too much hidden misery to speak greatly of mirth. "So you are mad after all. Robin Hood is a tale told by minstrels. If he ever existed, he died these two or three hundred years ago. What do you say to that?"

Robin spoke with slow bewilderment. "That one of us is indeed mad ..."

His mind was racing, tumbling over the details he’d earlier absorbed without understanding. The man’s clothing was of a manner strange to him. He was dressed in a short pleated tunic over close-fitting leggings; boots of a soft leather were pulled up over his knees. He wore a cap of dark velvet, pinned with a jewelled brooch, and the hand that held Robin down was clad in richly embroidered white kid leather, rings glittering through the artfully contrived eyelets.

_ Robin Hood is a tale told by minstrels ... _

"Mad indeed," the man spoke softly, almost as if to himself. "One, or both of us? I hunt in Sherwood, knowing I am a quarry myself, the prey of an adventurer who gathers an army to himself in Brittany. Do I shun the challenge because I have no wish to further his cause by seeming to take it seriously? Or is it because I fear to test the loyalty of those to whom I’ve given my trust? Can you answer me that, Robin of Sherwood?"

"I don’t understand your words," Robin said. "How could I, when not even your name is known to me?"

"I believe you, even though some might suspect your ignorance feigned. Know this, Robin i’ the Hood: I am your king." The voice was almost detached and gently ironic. "Richard, by the grace of God ... "

"Then I beg the King’s grace if I have offended in any way." Something in this man’s demeanour commanded a respect which Robin had never felt in the presence of King John. He offered it now to this stranger king; a respect which Lionheart had forfeited.

"I have taken no offense. You may be mad, but your eyes are those of an honest man, a trustworthy man. And I know so few of them."

With a suddenness that startled, he seated himself at Robin’s side. His eyes flickered towards his comrades, watching them from a discreet distance.

"Those men who ride with me I count my closest friends - it was they who searched and disarmed you - and they are true. But there are always those ready to betray for their own gain. And sometimes it is a man you’d named friend you find at your throat." Something indefinable flickered briefly in his eyes, as if the faces of traitors came to mind to mock him.

"I am an outlaw with a price on my head," Robin offered. "I trust very few, but my Lady Marion I would trust with my life."

A look of unmistakable sadness and pain crossed the king’s face. "With her you may find solace when the world is harsh. I had a wife and son once, Robin i’ the Hood, but they are cold now. We were at Nottingham Castle when the news came about our son.I thought that Anne would go mad with grief and I had no words to comfort her. Nottingham .... I named it then my castle of care. Anne followed her son too quickly to the grave. They would have me marry again and get a new son. Between what the man feels and the king must do lies a gulf so wide I am no longer sure I know how to bridge it. Yet bridge it I must, or my short reign will be finished before ever it starts."

"Do you fear death?" Robin asked on an impulse he didn’t understand.

"Rather say I am mindful of mortality. There are worse things than dying. When Anne’s father found that the world was no longer dancing to his tune he laboured long and hard to turn it back to his choosing. He failed, but not before he’d twisted himself out of all recognition in pursuit of the power he craved. In the end he was prepared to barter pride, honour and his own daughter to sate ambition." He clenched one fist sharply as if the memory still troubled him. "He was my cousin, and I had cause once to both admire and love him, but he traded what he was as a man for what he thought he must do to retain power and privilege. Dear God, I would rather die than become such a travesty of myself." He paused and then added bitterly, "Yet there are those who would say that the process of my deformation has already begun."

"With what reason?" Robin was genuinely curious. Since he had played the fool for Lionheart he had become wiser to kings, and he sensed that this was a man struck from a mould far finer than that of the Angevins. There was a soul in him, and an almost terrible honesty.

"Because I was a good and loyal servant to my brother the king and yet within a few months of his death I had disinherited his children and taken the throne for my own." He registered Robin’s discomfiture with little surprise. "Believe me, I had reason enough to do so - no matter how men may judge me for it. But now I am forced to judge myself, and I find that I am guilty. My brother’s sons are dead - by my doing if not by my order. By casting them aside I doomed them, and they were slain on the authority of someone I thought a friend. The most untrue creature living ... He killed them to keep me safe - or so he would have said, and craved pardon for his rebellion at the same time. He would have lied: he killed them to pursue his own ends. But their blood lies on my hands too."

Robin’s eyes were appalled, and not just at the atrocity of the act itself but at the burden of guilt born by this man with the young-old face and the eyes that showed he had known too much of sorrow and treachery.

There was a long silence. A wood pigeon fluttered across the clearing. A drowsy bee bumbled across one of Robin’s hands. He shook it off and passed one hand across his head. He was hot. The air was still, threatening thunder. At his side the king stretched out one hand, lightly touching the sun-warmed smoothness of the beech bole.

"I had such hopes," he said softly, "such dreams that mine would be remembered as a fair reign, where all men regardless of station would receive equal justice. There are so many in this world who are weak and unprotected. I thought I had the power to make a difference. But evil has been done in my name. I am tainted, and if I am sick in soul how can the land prosper under me?" His hand dropped away from the tree almost as if he rejected what it represented, or as if it had rejected him. He looked across at Robin. "You must wonder why I choose to unburden myself to you."

"Because you think me a madman or a fool, but one with honest eyes who has no will or means to harm you," Robin said simply. "So you confess all your heart to me, but I am no priest, your grace. I cannot grant you absolution."

"God knows my heart and purpose. I leave my judgement - and my fate - in his hands. But I weary of the waiting; I would make an end to it!"

... _if I am sick in soul how can the land prosper under me_? Robin felt a sudden thrill along his spine, a recognition of kinship - and of shared destiny. He looked up. In the space of a heart-beat he caught and held King Richard’s gaze and saw with his mind -

\- an armoured figure on a white horse cresting a hill

\- a defiant silhouette raising the longbow one final time as a blood-red sunset stained the sky

\- a flood of red-jacketed men spilling forward, a white horse stumbling, a gold circlet flashing in the sun, a voice screaming "Treason!"

\- a ring of crossbows, the longbow broken across a knee, a hated voice roaring for -

_ death. _

The last enemy. The greatest enemy.

Robin stared up at the leaf-laced sky, and the visions shivered into pieces. His skin felt icy.

_ Did I see his death, or my own? Or both? Is that why I am here, Herne? Is this how you seek to prepare me for what must be? You show me the face of the enemy by letting me see another who is to be a sacrifice. But we are not alike. Not yet. And if I must die, Herne, then let it not be like this, first stripped of all that I hold dear. Let me leave the world knowing that Marion and the others will live, that I will stay in their hearts and that nothing will ever be forgotten. Robin Hood is a tale told by minstrels. But it is my tale and I will know when it draws to a close. Give me leave to devise my own ending, and give King Richard, too, that final grace. _

"You are pale, Robin i’ the Hood," King Richard said. "Do you see visions in Sherwood? Can you foretell the future? Then speak! How shall we be remembered?"

Robin parted his lips, but no words came. There was only an immense silence and darkness as the world dissolved around him.

\------

His face was wet. He fumbled with one hand to wipe his eyes and blinked them open. His head hurt.

"Robin!" Marion’s voice. He tried to see her against the dim light of the torch illuminating the sandstone passage and slowly her figure came into focus. "Blessed be," she said shakily and smiled. Her eyes were very bright.

"Marion ... " Her name came out as a croak.He tried to lift his head and wished he hadn’t. He put one hand to the back of his head, to where the blow had fallen, and felt it sticky with slime, and maybe blood. "What happened?"

"You slipped and cracked your head. You lay like one dead, Robin! Your eyes were open but there was no life in them! Your heart was still beating, but I feared ... " Marion broke off and bit her lip. "Robin, if I should lose you - "

"I will always be with you," Robin said softly. "Remember that nothing is ever forgotten."

Marion smiled and touched his face, and Robin felt the strength of her love encircle him like a bright garland. Then she turned her head and called the others. They came with cautious alacrity, eager to see him but anxious to avoid slipping themselves. As Marion busied herself tearing strips from the bottom of her tunic, John and Will gently eased him onto his feet. The pain was lessening already, but he was grateful for their support.

"We must go on," he insisted. "We must get the - "

"It’s done, Robin." Tuck grinned. "Do you know how long you’ve been lying there like that?"

"It was hours and hours," said Much, wiping one hand across his eyes and sniffing. "We thought you’d died ... "

"Marion stayed with you," John explained. "The rest of us carried on. We thought you’d want it that way."

"And?" Robin demanded.

"And?" John frowned.

"Did you get the gold?"

John’s face broke into one of its widest smiles. "Oh aye, we did that. There was a guard set, but they won’t be telling any tales about us to the sheriff."

"It’ll be a little mystery for de Rainault and Gisburne, won’t it?" Will rubbed his hands together in deep satisfaction at the thought. "We took what we could, and we got more than enough to see the villages through the winter if the crops do fail."

Robin clapped him on the back, grinning. There was no need for words. His pride and pleasure in their success was obvious in his face.

"Where were _you_?" Nasir asked quietly.

Robin sobered swiftly. "Herne sent me ... elsewhere."His hand dropped to his sword belt and he closed his fingers, wonderingly, over Albion’s familiar hilt.

"But you didn’t go anywhere!" Much protested. "He never moved, did he?" he appealed to Marion.

"Maybe you dreamt it," John suggested.

Robin shook his head - and winced. Marion touched the back of his scalp with gentle fingers and began to dress the wound with the strips torn from her tunic.

"It was no dream," Robin said. "And I don’t know how I could be _there_ and _here_ at the same time, but Herne contrived it. I met a king ... King Richard."

"Richard? He’s dead and gone. Took that arrow at Chalus and died of it," Will said, obviously concerned that the blow to Robin’s head had knocked all the sense out of it. "It’s King John we’ve got to reckon with now, God rot him." He spat.

"But the time was not _now_," Robin insisted. "And a Richard was king. May his spirit find the peace it deserves."

Marion took his hand. "But Robin, if what you say is true, he isn’t yet born so -"

"He will die," Robin said flatly.

"We _all_ die," Will pointed out with a soldier’s matter-of-factness.

_ Do you see visions in Sherwood? Can you foretell the future? _

Robin steadied himself and closed his hand around Marion’s waist, drawing the pliant warmth of her body against him. He rested his head on her shoulder, breathing the woodsmoke scent of her hair and delighting in the softness of the curls that curved against his cheek.

"Yes, we all die, Will. But how shall we be remembered?"

 

The End


End file.
